


Perfection

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (they're a no-go where Peter Quill is concerned), Linguistic Discussions in the Bedroom, M/M, Mpreg, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Smut, Smut with a side of Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 03:19:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9053065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Getting knocked up was never on Peter's to-do list. Luckily he's got Drax to help him through it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fandom_Fanatic7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandom_Fanatic7/gifts).



> **This is a Christmas present for Fandom_Fanatic7, who is a wonderful, supportive, funny, and all around adorable friend. You're a darling, darling. Happy Christmas!**

“This isn’t fair,” Peter hisses. Then repeats it, just to make absolutely sure that they’re on the same page. _“This is not fair!_ _I_ fucked _you!_ How did _I_ wind up pregnant?”

Drax pauses in his somber kneading of Peter’s lower spine. He’s sat behind Peter, crooked to an odd angle so he can reach those knots above Peter’s kidneys, where the strain of extra weight leaves muscles cramped and tender. Ideally, Peter’d be face down. But that’s an impossibility. The bulge distends his belly like a premature beer-gut, popping the first two buttons and the zipper of his fly.

The bulge.

Their bulge.

Peter’s been pregnant seven months now – thankfully Destroyer gestation periods are compatible with human biology, so he hasn’t gone full-Ripley _._ But although he’s had plenty of time to acclimatize, he still has difficulty processing the fact that there’s an actual, living _thing_ inside him, not just the bloat from a hefty dinner.

Peter Quill is gonna be a dad. A _real_ dad. (Not that Groot’s potted phase doesn’t count, but Rocket pretty much take cares of the kid solo. And _sure_ Peter should volunteer to mind him more often; but sue him, he’s pregnant. He’s _allowed_ to slack from chores and demand back-rubs at inconvenient moments.)

Drax has heard each of Peter’s complaints before, most multiple times. ‘It’s not fair’ is an old favorite. Rather than reminding him that their predicament is caused by an amalgamation of factors, most related to Peter’s otherworldly biology and all inexplicable by science, he focuses on the more confusing part of his speech. “I do not understand your use of the term ‘fucked’. It means to copulate, yes? So how does making me the object of the verb alter the meaning of the sentence?”

Ugh. Stupid language barriers. Peter’s grateful for his translator – without it, he’d only hear garble. But when it comes to the lesser-known dialects – dialects like Drax’s – it’s about as useful as Babelfish-dot-com. (Not that Peter would understand that reference; he’d left Earth before dial-up, and had been a little too young for the Hitchhiker’s Guide). If a word contains multiple nuances, the translation algorithms select whichever is most common, regardless of context. Homonyms are hard. Contronyms are utterly egregious. And, of course, some phrases thwart translation entirely.

How do you explain that ‘fucked’ has very particular vulgar connotations? Or that being raised in the ‘80s South for the first decade of your life (and a Ravager flagship for the next two) gives you all sorts of weird hang-ups about sex? Particularly with regards to who sticks what into whom?

Peter only gave that lecture once. Conceiving ‘masculinity’ as being in any way related to the penetrating party, as opposed to the penetrated one, was so bewildering to Drax that he’d actually stopped lowering himself onto Peter’s cock to interrogate him. Suffice to say, that incident has taught Peter the necessity of keeping language lessons and bedroom activities separate.

Peter crosses his arms. Then rearranges them over the bulge, gingerly resting his elbows on its topside. “I don’t want to talk about this,” he says. “I want you to keep touching me.”

He must sound petulant enough for Drax to indulge him. Broad hands smooth Peter’s flanks, squeezing and stroking, and Peter’s grumbles ease into heartfelt groans. “Good?” Drax rumbles. He works along Peter’s spine, circling each vertebrae with his thumb and then knuckling the divot between it and its neighbor until Peter’s entire backbone feels to have been replaced by plasticine.

“Mmm.”

“I will take that as an affirmative.”

“Mmm-mm.”

It’s more than affirmative. It’s a plea for more, and Drax, ever the obedient partner, delivers. There’s a mammoth strength contained in Drax’s hands. When he wants to rearrange Peter he simply lifts him, pregnant belly and all, and maneuvers him until Peter’s resting on his hands and knees, giving Drax full massaging access. Peter whimpers, bellybutton rubbing the sheets. His stomach fills the space between torso and mattress. It’s so large he struggles not to rest on it, arching to increase the amount of space that the bulge has to swing.

In doing so, incidentally, he crushes his ass against Drax’s crotch.

Drax makes a delightful startled noise. Then presses forwards, and – fuck, Peter can feel everything. Stupid tight leather pants. And dammit, but pregnant while he might be, Peter ain’t no bitch, and he’s not catching for anyone – least of all his baby-daddy. (Baby-mommy. Whatever Drax is – Peter’s still a little iffy on the specifics.)

”Don’t get too comfortable back there,” he growls. “When you’re done rubbing my back, you’re more than welcome to ride my cock.”

“Hm.” Drax doesn’t sound disappointed – Peter’ll give him that. The fingertips grazing Peter’s stretched-taut, distended stomach-skin dip to caress his hips, dabbling lightly around them, tip-toeing to his cock in spirals. Blame it on the hormones, blame it on the proximity, blame it on anything but the fact there’s a piece of meat resting on his ass that’d make most stallions jealous, but Peter’s already half-stiff. Drax’s pleased grunt, as he weighs his leather-clad flesh and squeezes, spurs him the rest of the way. “As much as I would love that, my darling, I’m afraid our child will make assuming our usual favorite positions... difficult.”

Peter buries his face in the pillow as Drax fishes between his legs, unzipping the fly further and collecting his cock from where it’s tacked to the rounded underside of his stomach. “You hear that, lil’ guy?” he says through clenched teeth. “You’re stopping daddy fucking other-daddy. I’m gonna name you something really nasty in retaliation. Like… like ‘Sproglet’. ‘Parasite’. Maybe ‘Yondu’.”

And _sure,_ Peter could be fucked by other-daddy instead. But he doesn’t want that. Call it internalized sexism, call it internalized homophobia, call it simple personal preference, but the fact of the matter is that imagining anything going into his hoo-ha (and out again, and in again, and out and in some more) has only ever made him nauseous. Drax accepts this gracefully. He returns to his cartography of Peter’s back muscles, when brushing his inner thighs makes every knot of tension that Drax labored for so long to dispel pop back into place. “Do not call our daughter after that blue maniac.”

“I’m only teasing. And I’ve already decided: I’m calling our _son_ Steve. After a hero on my world. You can pick his middle name.”

Drax blinks. “What use is a ‘middle’ name?”

There he goes again, breaking the rule of ‘no theoretical language-debates in the bedroom’. In lieu of an answer Peter burrows into the pillow, inhaling the warm smells of Drax and sleep. His cock leaks, silvery precum dripping, but Peter feels no yearning urge to clutch it. Everything’s become mellow, as of late. His arousal, while embarrassingly easy to evoke, is more like a gentle hearth-fire than a furnace, as if his body is settling into the domestic rhythms of parenthood. And although Drax’s slow pumps are appreciated, Peter doesn’t buck into his fist. Rather than chasing the endgame, he lets it come at its own pace.

Soft and smooth and intimate, that’s what this is. The pass of Drax’s fingers over his shiny cockhead; the bunch of skin along his length; the pressure of Drax’s thumb, which rests against Peter’s ballsack and rotates around its joint in measured circles that Peter would find maddening under any other circumstance… It’s all so very, very _nice._ When he cums, Drax even manages to catch the majority so Peter doesn’t have to suffer the discomfort of a sticky belly until he can be carried to the bath.

“Thank you,” he breaths, as he’s rolled onto his side. It comes out more as ‘ _urguuu’,_ as his tongue’s been replaced with a melted butter pat, but Drax gets the gist.

“You are most welcome, my love.” Oh, he _knows_ Peter gets all squirmy when he calls him that. Bastard’s doing this on purpose.

Peter shuffles to face him, sluggish as he's weighed down simultaneously by the post-orgasmic bliss and the anchor in his gut. He finds Drax putting his spilt essence to good use. The Destroyer’s prick has been released from behind its crotch panel, and every last grey-green turgid inch is smeared with their mingling juices. Watching his cock bob about is mouth-watering. Drax’s efficient tugs are equally delectable, and Peter wriggles until he can rest his cheek on Drax’s thigh and watch him throb and twitch up close.

Now his lover is using him as a pillow, Drax quake with the effort of restraining his thrusts. Veins bulge from his shoulders. Every muscle is on display, rigid and shimmery with sweat. He looks like an artist’s anatomical diagram, pectorals close to popping out the skin. But where his body is built, his eyes are wonderfully bare: naked and vulnerable and overflowing with emotion. He looks at Peter with exquisite fondness, eyes closing only for that brief moment in which the pleasure becomes too great to contain. They reopen as focus returns, ensuring that Peter is the last and first thing Drax sees.

There’s wetness on Peter’s cheeks – Drax must’ve splashed his stubble. He transfers a fair portion onto his own face when he bends to kiss Peter, breathing like he’s been doing battle in a gladiator ring.

 _You’re perfect,_ Peter thinks. He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Drax’s eyebrows crinkle.

“Was that a metaphor? You know that I have many flaws. I am too hasty to fight. I say things that offend the green whore and the rodent..."

Peter covers his mouth. Then, once assured no more speech is forthcoming, guides him to cup his heavy belly. “It wasn’t a metaphor,” he says. Drax feels the kick. His expression melds into pure bliss. Peter pokes him in the nose. “See? That right there – perfect! This moment is perfect. _You_ are perfect.”

Drax is silent. He cards Peter’s gingery treasure trail as he mulls this over. Then – like lightning in a cosmic storm, illuminating the abyss in a crackling flash that knocks out all electrical equipment for kliks on every side – _eureka_. The dawning comprehension smooths the stern set of his jaw into something awed and wondrous that Peter wants to kiss a thousand times over.

“’Perfection’ is not necessarily all-encompassing,” he says slowly. “It can be found in moments of pleasure, no matter how brief. Peter, I believe you are correct. This moment is indeed, as you say, ‘perfect’.”

Peter nods patiently along. Then hooks Drax around the back of the neck and tugs, until the big guy stoops to kissable levels. “Then let’s see how long we can make it last.”

**Author's Note:**

> **If ya like it then ya should've left a comment on it.**


End file.
